A Week of Sausage: When My MotherinLaw Monitors Our Servings
Saturday Sausage How My MotherinLaw Counts Our Bites
It was midsummer, July, when Hélène Lucienne was scrubbing the windows, shaking the cushions, and reminding her daughter that it was time to come out to the country the garlic was ready for harvest. Élodie tried to justify herself: work, obligations, the kids Yet her mother, as stubborn as ever, would not budge.
The summer will be over soon, and youre still cooped up in your Paris flat! she shouted over the phone, irritated. The strawberries will spoil, the potatoes will turn green, and youll stay glued to your phones!
In the end they settled on a weekend visit, partly to help in the garden and partly to enjoy a quiet evening.
Alexandre had no desire to make the trip. Their last stay had ended badly, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He had simply asked for a bit of sausage to go with the couscousbut his motherinlaw had flatly refused. The rebuff was so abrupt he was left speechless.
On Saturday they left early. Work went smoothly: the garlic was pulled, sorted, and stored. All that remained was the evening, dinner, and family chatter. Alexandre took a shower and then wandered into the kitchen. Élodie and her mother were setting the table while the aroma of couscous filled the room. To pass the time, he opened the fridge, grabbed a few slices of sausage for a sandwichwhen suddenly
Dont touch that! Hélène Luciennes voice snapped like a gunshot.
The sausage was immediately shoved back into the fridge. Alexandre froze, stunned.
Whats happening, Mom? Élodie asked, bewildered.
The sausage is for breakfast with bread! Not now. And dont spoil your appetite! the motherinlaw cut sharply.
Alexandre tasted the couscous, but found no meat in it. He asked again for a bit of sausage. Another denial.
Why this obsession? Hélène Lucienne snapped. Youve already eaten half of it! Do you know how much it costs? Its supposed to last the whole week!
Alexandre pushed his plate away. With his appetite gone, he slipped outside, lay down on the garden sofa, and stared at the ceiling. Élodie joined him later.
Lets go back inside. I cant stand this atmosphere. Every move is watched, as if I were a thief. Im even afraid to butter my toast too heavily, lest it be ripped from my hands.
There isnt even a grocery store here, Élodie whispered, embarrassed. Just the greengrocers van on Wednesday.
We should have brought food instead of cherries and apricots, Alexandre muttered. Im leaving tomorrow. Ill pick you up later. Without meat I wont last long.
Well leave together, Élodie declared firmly.
The next morning they drove back toward Paris. Élodie told her mother a fabricated work emergency for Alexandre. The motherinlaw watched them go, her stare dark.
A year passed without them setting foot in Hélène Luciennes home. She, however, visited them without hesitation, and oddly enough she would open their fridge as if it were hers, taking whatever she wanted without asking. Alexandre even laughed:
Look at the sausage! Apparently here it has full rights
Come spring the calls started again:
So, when are you coming back? The garden wont wait.
Alexandre resisted until Élodie suggested a trick:
Lets bring supplies. That way Mom cant count our portions.
He agreedon the condition they swing by the supermarket first. And once more they stood before the country house, arms loaded with bags.
Whats this now? Apricots again? Hélène Lucienne asked, lips pursed. While rummaging through the bags she found cheese, meat, and sausage, and fell silent.
So you wont have to calculate how many grams I eat, Alexandre joked.
Hélène Lucienne emitted a small, disdainful snort but said nothing. Later in the kitchen she whispered to Élodie:
It would be nice if you always brought provisions. Simpler for me, easier for you.
Élodie nodded, torn between annoyance and amusement. The bottom line was clear: Alexandre was ready to return, bringing groceries, sure, but without arguments or reproaches. And, on reflection, that too was a kind of family happiness.
A Week of Sausages: When My Mother-in-Law Critiques Our Portions
